Exiles at the Well of Souls

Makiem

He awoke and opened his eyes. For a moment, he was confused, disoriented. Things didn’t quite look right, and it took him half a minute to remember what had happened and what was supposed to happen.

He had walked into that blackness in the wall, and there had been an odd sensation, like being wrapped in someone’s embrace—warm, probing, emotional; a thing he had never felt before. A drifting, dreaming sleep, except that he couldn’t remember the dreams—only the fact that most, perhaps all, had been about himself.

I’m supposed to be something else,he remembered. Changed into one of those weird creatures, like the snake-man or the plant-thing. It didn’t bother him, really, that he was to become something else; what he had become, however, would shape his plans for the future.

There was something strange about his vision, but it took him a little thinking to realize what it was. For one thing, depth perception had increased dramatically; everything stood out in sharp relief, and he had the strong feeling that he knew to the tenth of a millimeter how far one thing was from him and from anything else. Colors also seemed brighter, sharper; contrasts, both between slightly different shades of the same color and between light and dark, were markedly improved. But, no, that really wasn’t what mattered, either.

Suddenly he had it. I’m seeing two images! he thought. There was almost an eighty-degree panorama on both sides; peripherally, he could almost see in back of him. But straight ahead there was a blank spot. Not a line or a divider; it was simply that what was absolutely dead ahead was barely out of his range of vision. His mind had to be forced to recognize the lapse, or he wasn’t conscious of it.

There was movement to his right, and reflexively his right eye shifted a little to catch what it was. A large insect of some kind—very large, the size of a man’s fist—buzzed overhead like some small bird. It took him a little more time to realize that he’d moved the right eye independent of the left.

He put both eyes as far forward as possible. He seemed to have a snout of some kind; his mouth was large and protrusive. He was conscious that he was resting comfortably, almost naturally, on all fours, and he raised his hand up to his right eye to see it.

It was an odd hand, both strangely human and yet not. Four very long webbed fingers and an opposable thumb, each terminating in what appeared to be a small suckerlike tip where the fingerprint would be. Looking carefully, he saw that there was a print pattern inside the sucker. His hand and arm were a deep pea-green in color, with brown and black spots here and there. The skin looked tough and leathery, like the skin of a snake or other reptile.

That’s what I must be, he decided. A reptile of some sort. The landscape was certainly right for it: jungle-like, with lush undergrowth and tall trees that almost hid the sun. What looked for all the world like a gravel-topped road cut through the dense vegetation. It was a road, and very well maintained, too. In thick brush like this, one would have to have road crews working constantly every hundred kilometers or so to keep the natural foliage back from the cleared area.

He had just decided to go over to the road and follow it to whatever passed for civilization when another of those large insects came by, perhaps two meters or more in front of him. Almost without thinking, his mouth opened and a tremendously long tongue, like a controllable ribbon, shot out, struck the insect, and wrapped itself around the thing. Then it was retracted into his mouth, and he chewed and swallowed it. It didn’t have much taste, but the insect felt solid and went down well, and it helped the hungry ache inside him. He reflected curiously on his own reactions, or lack of them. It was a natural, normal thing to do, and it had been done automatically. The concept of eating a live insect didn’t even bother him that much.

The Well World changes you, all right, in many ways, he thought. And yet—he was still Antor Trelig, inside. He remembered all that had transpired and regretted none of it—except flying too low over the Well World. Even that might be turned to ultimate advantage, he told himself confidently. If such power could be harnessed in the service of those best able to use it, ones like himself, it mattered not what form he was in or what he ate for breakfast. If the Well World had taught him nothing else, it taught him that everything was transitory.

I wonder how I walk? he mused, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. Well, the eating had taken care of itself, probably that would, too.

He eyed the road and started forward. Much to his surprise, his legs gave a great kick and he was to it, unerringly, in two large hops—coming down after the first one in a smooth, fluid motion that already had him set for the next leap, and coming to rest in the loose gravel with no rolling, imbalance, or discomfort. It was fun, really—like flying, almost.

He tried just walking, and found that, if he used all fours, he could manage it with some effort, like a waddle. Jumping, or hopping, was the normal mode of locomotion for this race; walking was for the local stuff too short for a hop.

He looked both ways. One direction was as good as the other, he decided; both ends of the path disappeared into the thick growth. He picked one and started off. It didn’t take long to come upon some others. He saw them from a great distance off, once he realized that a lot of the rustling he’d heard in the upper trees wasn’t just birds and insects.

Ahead was a grove of giant trees almost set off from the rest of the forest, a small lake to one side. There were houses in those trees—intricate structures woven between the branches out of some straw or bamboolike material that almost certainly grew in the marshes.

One of the creatures appeared in the lower doorway of one of the houses, looked around for a moment, then stepped out and walked down the almost ninety-degree angle of the trunk to the ground! Trelig understood now what those suction cups were for. Very handy.

The creature resembled nothing so much as a great giant frog, its legs incredibly long when stretched out for walking, a light and smooth greenish-brown texture from the lower jaw down to the crotch, the same rough spotted green elsewhere.

The creature went up to a large wooden box set on a stake near the road, sat up on its powerful hind legs, lifted the lid, and looked inside. Nodding to itself, it reached in and picked out several large brown envelopes. Trelig realized with some surprise that the thing was a mailbox.

He approached slowly, not wanting either to alarm the creature or to seem out of place. It shifted an eye in his direction—its head was almost too integral a part of the body to allow flexible movement, but the eyes made up for it—and nodded politely to him. He sensed that there was anger in the creature’s expression, but not directed at him.

Trelig remembered that Ortega had said that the Well would provide the language. He decided just to talk normally.

“Good day, sir!” the new frog said to the long-time resident. “A nice day, isn’t it?”

The other snorted contemptuously. “You must work for the government to say something like that,” he growled in a deep bass that was not unpleasant but that seemed to originate from deep in the chest cavity. The creature held up one of the envelopes. “Tax bills! Always tax bills!” he almost shouted. “I don’t know how the sons of bitches expect an honest man to make a living these days.” The phrase wasn’t really “sons of bitches,” but some local equivalent, but that’s how Trelig’s mind understood it.

He nodded slightly in sympathy. “No, I don’t work for the government,” he replied, “although I might some day. But I understand and sympathize with your problems.”

That statement seemed to satisfy the other, who opened another envelope, pulling out a long yellow sheet of paper. He glanced at it, then balled it up in disgust.

“Hmph! First they want your life’s blood, then they ask you to do them favors!” he snorted.

Trelig frowned. “Huh?” was all he could manage.

The frog-man tossed the rolled up paper slightly in his hand, like a ball. “Report any Entries that you might meet to the local police at once,” he spat. “What the hell do I pay all these taxes for, anyway? So I can do their jobs while they hunch on their fat asses eating imported sweetmeats bought with my money?”

Trelig took the opportunity to glance at the tax bill. He couldn’t read it, couldn’t make any sense at all out of the crazy and illogical nonpatterns there. Obviously reading was not considered a necessary skill by the Well computer.

“You ain’t seen no Entries, have you?” the man asked, not a little trace of sarcasm in his voice. “Maybe we’ll form a search party. Go out yelling, ‘Here, Entry! Nice Entry!’ ”

Trelig liked him. If he were representative of this hex’s people, he would not find life unbearable.

“No,” he chuckled. “I haven’t seen any Entries. Have you? Ever, I mean?”

The grouch shook his head slightly as a negative. “Nope. And never will, either. Met one, once, a long time ago. Big, nasty-looking birdlike reptile from Cebu. Kind of a local celebrity for a while. Big deal.”

Trelig was relieved to hear that Entries weren’t boiled in oil or something, but the official notice that the man had received said that this was no ordinary case. Somehow, he decided, they were on to him. At least, he had to act that way. And he wanted to check out the lay of this new land before revealing himself, if he could. It might be easier than he’d thought, considering how automatically he was acting and how readily this man had accepted him. He hoped so.

“Been traveling far?” the man asked him.

Trelig nodded. Farther than this creature could imagine.

“Headin’ for Druhon for the government tests, I’ll bet,” the frog-man guessed.

“Yes, you guessed it exactly,” Trelig replied. “I’ve thought of nothing else since”—he started to say “since I got here” but caught himself—“I was very small,” he finished. “At least it’ll give me a chance to see the government in action, no matter what.”

That started the other off again. “The government inaction is what you’ll see, but that’s the future for you. Shoulda done it myself when I was young. But, no, I had to get into farming. Free and independent, I said. No bosses.” He let out an angry, snakelike hiss. “So you wind up being run by the government, bossed by the government, taxes and regulations, regulations and taxes. Some freedom!”

Trelig clucked sympathetically. “I understand you perfectly.” He looked around, as if sensing time was pressing and he had an appointment. “Well, it was nice talking to you, and I wish you better luck and much prosperity in the future, but I must be getting on.”

The man seemed to appreciate the nice comments. “Been a pleasure, really. Sure you won’t come in for a drink of good beer? It’s only an hour or two more to Druhon.”

Thatwas good news. His cup was running over today. “Thank you, no,” he replied. “I must be in the city. But I’ll remember you, sir, when I’m rich and powerful.”

“You do that, sonny,” the other chuckled. Trelig went on.

He wondered as he continued what the old man had farmed; there was no sign of fields or cultivation of any kind. Best not to ask and appear too ignorant, particularly with a wanted poster out.

There was also the matter of money. He saw a number of the creatures as he went on, living together in groups or singly, on the ground, in trees, and even some floating dwellings in the countless lakes and marshes. All wore no clothing of any kind, and he wondered where you’d put money if you had it. He worried that there was some sort of identity system that would unmask him. But, no, he told himself, technology was obviously primitive here. There were torch stands all over, but not a sign of a powered light or device. Besides, if they had such a system they wouldn’t bother sending out all those wanted circulars on him.

More confident and proficient now, he stopped and talked to several others along the way. They were mostly plain, simple creatures, close to the soil. Females were slightly smaller and had smoother top skin than the males, their voices slightly higher and smoother, but they were otherwise identical. He was a male; their comments told him that, even without the skin-texture difference, he was a young one at that. That made the first few days easier. He was expected to be curious and not expected to know anything.

But he learned. A casual reference told him that the country, the hex, was called Makiem, as were the people. It was a common, although not universal, practice on the Well World to have the race name and place name coincide. He learned, too, that it was a hereditary monarchy—which was bad. But the hex was administered by a large corps of civil servants, chosen by merit of brilliance and aptitude through a massive battery of tests, from those of every class and walk of society—which was good. That meant that the king of Makiem would listen to and take seriously advice from anyone he considered qualified, thus decisions were almost certainly made not by the royal family but by an individual or council who would be the best, greediest, most ambitious and able people in the country.

His kind of people.

Druhon, the capital city, was a surprise. First, it was huge—a great city, really, carved out of the jungle and sitting on a series of low hills that raised it slightly above the swamp. There was a broad, clear lake off to the west, and it was crowded with swimmers. Trelig had been feeling slightly itchy and uncomfortable; now he guessed the reason. Although these were land people, they stayed very close to the sea that gave them birth, and they had to return to it occasionally to wet down their skins. Once a day, probably, although in all likelihood a washdown with a hose would do as well.

Another surprise was the buildings themselves. Great castles and huge buildings of stone showing superior masonry skills, and homes and businesses built of good handmade brick mortared so well that nothing would get through them. Heavy wooden doors also showed great craftsmanship, and figures of brass and iron on gates, fences, and doors were evidence of a fine artistic skill. Considering that this was obviously a nontechnological hex, these people had developed a really surprising, modern culture. His estimation of them, and his optimism, went up accordingly.

There was still the problem of money. He walked the streets filled with stalls outside the places of business, with great frog businessmen and women hawking their wares and calling and cajoling customers. And money they did have and did carry. Watching the Makiem buying at the stalls, he saw that they carried everything they needed or used in their mouths—the lower jaw area was flexible, roomy, and, when he tested it with his own hand, had a thin, rigid flap controlled by a small muscle in the back of the throat. Evolution had obviously placed it there to store food for long periods. Civilization had given rise to more practical and cosmopolitan uses. The flap on the outside contained enough folded skin that one might not notice it, but occasionally people went by who looked like they had goiters. Trelig finally understood that it wasn’t because of physiological differences but because they had a lot to carry.

The sights and smells of the city also excited him. They were strange smells, odors that his former self perhaps would have found foul or offensive, but they smelled wondrous and sweet and new to him now.

And there were the tattoos, mysterious symbols drawn by some device on the underbelly. Not everybody had them—most of the farmers he had met didn’t—but a lot of people here did. They were symbols of authority, he surmised. Policemen, perhaps, and government officials. Somehow he’d have to find out what all those things meant.

The police, who were his first worry, were easiest to identify. He didn’t know just how many people lived in this city, but it was easily a quarter-million, most residing in four-storey brick apartments entered by walking up the walls. That created pedestrian traffic jams. He saw carts, lots of them, moving goods from one place to another, pulled by giant insects, larger than a Makiem, that looked a lot like walking grasshoppers. All this meant traffic control, and so there were traffic cops.

He checked out several, looking particularly at the big symbol on their chests—a sort of double wheel with two diagonal crossbars. To be safe, he decided to act as if a double wheel with any crossbars was a cop.

The city’s size and complexity gave him no small measure of anonymity; he was just one of the crowd. It suited him for a while, although shelter would have to be attended to, and sooner or later he’d have to face the problem of money and food—there were no big, fat insects or groves around here. He’d never stolen anything small, but it shouldn’t be all that hard.

He checked out the massive stone buildings with the towers and the flags. Government buildings without a doubt, the largest of which, with a tremendous amount of impressive brass grillwork and high iron spiked gates to snare the unwary intruder, was obviously the royal palace. At the gate there were guards armed with vicious-looking crossbows and pikes, and an impossibly complex symbol on their chests matched the ones wrought in iron at regular intervals in the fence.

The royal symbol, obviously. He was learning fast.

The itching was getting to him. His skin felt dry and uncomfortable, almost as if it was ready to peel off. He decided to head down to the big lake. It was a beautiful setting, particularly against the waning sun. A sparkling lake, fresh and surprisingly clean considering the nearby population, dotted with myriad islands and flanked by small but imposing granite mountains.

The lake was somewhat crowded, but not enough to cause real problems. He slipped into the water with ease, and found it surprisingly cold. The chill lasted for only a few moments, however, and then, somehow, the water temperature seemed to rise until it was just perfect. Cold-blooded, he decided. It wasn’t the water temperature that had risen, but his body temperature that had lowered to match the water.

Swimming was as easy as leaping had been. His rear legs, large and thickly webbed, propelled him, and he floated naturally across the top of the lake. This, however, didn’t get rid of the itch on his back, and when he got out a ways he angled downward.

A strange thing happened suddenly. A membrane came down over his eyes, transparent as glass, yet totally protective. And too, his vision seemed to alter, becoming less depth- and color-sensitive but tremendously respondent to changes in light and dark. His nose also seemed to close off by internal flaps, but he experienced no discomfort from not breathing. He wondered how long he could stay under; quite some time, he thought, and decided to test it.

The longer he stayed down, the less he seemed to mind it. He had the uncanny sensation that he was breathing, slightly and shallowly, although there were no bubbles. No gills, either. He finally decided that something in his skin could absorb a certain amount of oxygen from the water. It was not, as he found out with time, enough for him to live underwater, but it was sufficient for him to stay down at least half an hour, perhaps much longer, before coming up for air.

He came up near one of the islands and looked around. The water felt soothing and comfortable. Lazily, he turned and looked back at the hilly city. It was getting dark, and lights were coming on—and not just torchlights, either, although there were plenty of those. No, those strange glass streetlights he’d seen were what he guessed they might be—gas lamps. These people were at the peak of their technological limits.

The great palace, on the highest bill, was illuminated by torches and multicolored gas lamps almost completely. It had a fairy-tale look to it, an air of unreality that, he suspected, was deliberate.

Reluctantly, he headed back toward shore. Hunger was starting to creep into him, and there was much to do. He made shore swiftly, experiencing the slight shock of getting out of the water into what felt, curiously, like almost oppressively hot, thick air. His body adjusted to it in moments, though, and he went on.

He first looked for the inevitable low-dive district common to all big cities, but, after much searching, he had to admit defeat. A lot of neighborhood bars, with big frogs reclining on form-fitting cushions so they almost sat up like humans, gulping beers and other spirits from enormously wide glasses with narrow stems. The glasses had one gentle flat side, and you drank by putting it to your mouth and raising the glass while throwing your head slightly back.

No dives, though.

What was missing, he decided, was sex. They just didn’t seem to engage in it or be motivated by it. No romantic couples, no advances—lots of friendly groups, mixed and not, but nothing at all sexual. Even he, a mature and young Makiem, had felt nothing particularly inside him when near any of the females. Only the Comworlds where cloning was the norm and everyone was an identical neuter approached the sexlessness of this society, yet there were clearly two distinct sexes. It was a puzzle for later.

In his wanderings, he found that he had waited too long. The streets were brightly lit; so were the apartments, with some people relaxing on the street outside, others in their open doorways or, from the sounds, on the roofs. There were regular beat patrolmen, too.

He decided to head toward the outskirts of the city, the direction from which he’d come. Maybe something would present itself; if it didn’t, well, he could always go back to that glade where he woke up and chance that, if, as was likely, it was somebody’s property, he could use it as a base temporarily.

The female Makiem at first seemed almost heaven-sent. She was obviously well-off, perhaps a farmer just in the city for the evening. No tattoo. And young and very small.

And drunk out of her mind.

She couldn’t hop; she could barely crawl, mumbling something to herself or perhaps singing although so badly and distorted that it sounded like the rumbling and croaking it was even to Trelig. She tried one last hop, fell flat on her face, and rolled over into a ditch. A nice, dark drainage ditch.

“Oh, shit!” he heard her exclaim loudly. Then, a few seconds later, he heard tremendous snoring. She had passed out in the culvert.

He bounded over to her. His night vision was about the same as it had been as a human, and so, though it was dark and shadowy—and mucky—it wasn’t a helpless situation.

She was lying on her back, big bow-legs outstretched. He took a moment to study her. He’d discovered, by necessity and experience, how a Makiem went to the bathroom and where, but by no stretch of the imagination could that apparatus be sexual. There wasn’t much of a clue with her, either. A fine little puzzle, he thought sardonically. I know most of what it’s like to be a Makiem except the facts of life. He turned to other, more pressing matters. He carefully felt her jaw-pouch; it definitely had something in it, perhaps a moneybag. He hesitated an instant, then shook her. She didn’t wake up, didn’t even react. He shook her harder. Still nothing.

Satisfied that she was dead to the world, he leaned over and tried to pry her mouth open.

And tried. And tried.

It was shut as tightly as if it were welded in place.

He was about to give up when she gave a great snore, and the mouth opened a bit as she turned slightly on her side. Carefully, he reached inside—and felt a smooth, bone-hard plate that fit so exactly he couldn’t even get a grip on it. And then the mouth shut. She didn’t wake up, it just shut, right on his hand. He tried to pull it free, and couldn’t. He spent the better part of half an hour trying to get his hand out. She turned more, almost pulling him on top of her, but he couldn’t remove that hand.

He was almost in a panic, particularly when her ribbonlike tongue came over to explore the object. He felt its stickiness and felt it wrap around his hand, wondering what he could do. There were no teeth in the front part of the jaw, but there were three rows not far back. If the tongue pulled his hand just a little bit more…! Then, mercifully, the tongue recoiled and her mouth opened. She let out a nasty hiss and turned some more. He almost fell backward into the ditch and cursed softly to himself, nursing his hand, which was now feeling bruised. She must not have liked the taste, he decided with thanks. He sighed, knowing now that personal robbery here, unless it was armed robbery, was pretty near impossible.

He thought things over. He could drift for a while, make do, but only as a beggar and a fugitive. Force was out; he didn’t know how to fight as a Makiem, and they’d probably beat the shit out of him. Furthermore, he would not be able to enter Makiem society at his own pleasure.

The only thing left to do was to turn himself in.

The guards looked bored. They sat there, motionless except for an occasional blink, as only reptiles could—but they were very much awake. Eyes were on him as he approached, and the crossbows were armed and cocked in their hands. Still, they looked like nothing so much as statues.

He marched up to one. “Pardon me, sir, but is this the royal palace?” he asked pleasantly. He had no desire to fall into the hands of local police or lower-level bureaucrats.

The guard stood still, but his eyes gave the newcomer a once-over that could almost be felt. The guard’s mouth didn’t move, showing once again that the sound-producing apparatus was elsewhere, but he said, “Go away, farmboy. No visitors except on Shrivedays.”

“It is the palace, though?” he persisted.

“Naw, it’s the headquarters of the limbush-producers union,” the guard responded sarcastically. “Now, go away before you get hurt.”

Trelig decided on another tack. He took a deep breath. “Are you still looking for any Entries like the circulars said?” he asked casually.

The guard’s eyes lit up with renewed interest. “You know of an Entry in Makiem?” The question was sharp, businesslike, but interested.

“I do,” Trelig told him. “Who do I talk to about it?”

“Me,” the guard replied. “If I like what you say, I’ll pass it on.”

Like fun you would, Trelig thought. Only if there was something in it for you. “All right then,” he said flatly, resigned. “If you’re not interested then…” He turned to leave.

“Hold it!” called a different voice, perhaps the other guard. The tone was commanding, and Trelig froze, smiling inwardly.

“If somebody else gets it, and it is an Entry, it’ll be our skins,” the new voice pointed out. “Better we should take him to the old man.”

“Oh, all right,” grumbled the first. “I’ll do it. But what’s in it for us?”

“I know what we’re in for if he’s okay and we blow it,” the other responded. “Go on.”

Trelig turned back around. “Come on, you. Follow me,” the first guard mumbled resignedly, and came to life, turning and slow-hopping with short motions up the brick-paved walkway. Trelig followed, feeling better. If, as Ortega had said, all the races of this universe—and this world—including humanity had sprung from a single source, all the races so created would have certain things in common reflecting their creators. Human nature was Antor Trelig’s life and profession, and it didn’t matter to him what form that human took.

They entered a side door of the palace, and went into a gas-lit room that was peculiar indeed. A guard was on duty, and nodded slightly to his leader as they entered.

Two walls of the room held a great many strange-looking similar devices. There was a top part that resembled giant padded headphones, and a rubbery suction-cup device with a hole in the center underneath. They were on spring-loaded coils of tubing of the same material. Above each of the dozens of such devices was a plaque with something in that crazy writing.

Trelig watched curiously as the guard took the headphones and placed them over his head, just behind the jaw joints where the tiny ear openings were. Then the suction cup was attached almost to the center of the tattooed insignia on its chest. The guard expanded his chest, letting go an extremely loud and annoying rumble.

Trelig understood the thing now. It transmitted direct sound to various points in the palace, the hollow tube itself moving the air. He suspected the voices sounded hollow, tinny, and terribly far away, but it worked. A primitive, nontechnological telephone.

Nontechnological, hell! he corrected himself. These people were tremendously advanced technologically. Everything that could work they had created, ingeniously.

“Yes, sir,” the guard literally shouted, so loud that Trelig wished he had ear flaps to match the nose ones. “Says he knows of an Entry, yes, sir.” Pause. “No, nothing odd.” Pause. “Personally, sir? But—” Pause. “All right, sir. Right away,” the guard completed the call, detached the suction cup, which coiled back into its built-in holder, and replaced the headphones on their rack. He turned to Trelig.

“Come on, you,” he grumbled. He followed the guard out.

There were no stairs or ramps, and Trelig had a bad time when they reached a high opening, four walls of bare, smooth stone, obviously a junction for the hallways on the multistoried castle, and the guard simply started walking up the wall.

Trelig hesitated, then decided, hell, why not? If it doesn’t work I think I can survive the fall. What he had to do, he saw from the guard, was press his finger-cups solidly on the stone, pull himself up, then use leg-cups on the webbed hind feet to support him while he reached farther up. If he managed it in a smooth series of motions, like climbing a ladder, it would be effortless, but doing so proved awkward and slow for Antor Trelig. He was conscious of the guards’ stares and chuckles in the corridor below, and heard the guard above growl, “Come on, you! Can’t keep the old man waiting!”

He made it, with difficulty, to the third story, thankful that they didn’t have to go any farther. That took some getting used to. Getting down, looking down the whole way, would be worse. He put the thought out of his mind.

They passed by great rooms, some sumptuously furnished with silks and fancy rugs and woven tapestries. A few doors were closed, but, no matter what, the place reeked of opulence. There was a lot of fancy metal art, too, and most of it wasn’t brass or iron, either—it was solid gold, often encrusted with jewels of amazing proportions.

Finally they entered what had to be some sort of reception hall. It was rectangular, but too small to be the king’s regular place. The ceiling was still a good ten meters high, and the walls were draped with maroon and gold velvet curtains. There was a thick rug of some soft fur from the door sill to every corner of the room, and a slightly raised dais near the far wall with the most comfortable-looking of those strange cushion-chairs he’d ever seen. He looked around, mentally betting himself that there was another entrance somewhere, probably just behind that dais.

He was right. The curtains behind the chair moved, and an elderly Makiem walked in on all fours, got up on the dais, and turned, settling back onto the broad cushion-chair. The effect was remarkably human, as if a man, leaning about forty-five degrees forward in a chair were sitting there. The old man even crossed his huge legs a little, and rested his arms on two small wooden adjustable rails.

The old one looked at the newcomer critically, then looked over at the guard. “That will be all, Zubir. I’ll call you if I need you.” The guard bent its head slightly and withdrew, closing the big wooden door behind him.

The old man turned back to Trelig. “You know the whereabouts of an Entry?” he asked, his voice crackling with energy. His skin was blotched and old and bloated, but this was a very lively individual, Trelig decided.

“I do, sir,” Trelig responded carefully. “He has sent me here to find out what is in store for him before he turns himself in.”

The old man chuckled. “Insolent, too. I like that.” He suddenly leaned farther forward and pointed. “You’re the Entry and you know it!” he snapped, then his tone softened again, became friendlier. “You are a terrible wall-climber, although a smooth liar. I’ll give you that. Now, come! Who are you really?”

Trelig considered his answer. He could be any one of several people, and perhaps be the better for it. Either Zinder was out—he was too mature to be the daughter and not versed well enough in technology to be the father. The same for Ben Yulin, and that wouldn’t be much of an improvement, anyway. Renard or Mavra Chang? The former wouldn’t hold up—too slick at the start to pretend to be a guard now; this old guy was no fool—and Mavra Chang would be conspicuous if alive. So the best he could do was try and get into their good graces by the truth.

He imitated the guard by flexing his elbows so that his body lowered to the floor, then came back up again. “Antor Trelig, at your service, sir,” he said. “And who might I have the honor of talking to?”

The old man smiled slightly. A Makiem smile was far different from a human one, but Trelig recognized it. “Consider all the angles before you act, don’t you, Trelig?” he said offhandedly. “I could see all the possible lies going through your head before the truth came out. As to who I am, I am Soncoro, Minister of Agriculture.”

Trelig barely suppressed a chuckle. “And the man who really makes all the decisions around here,” he stated flatly.

Soncoro liked that. “And what brings you to that conclusion?”

“Because the guard sent me to the minister of agriculture, not the prime minister, king, or even state security. You were his first and only choice. Those types know who’s who.”

Soncoro nodded. “I think I’m going to like you, Trelig. We’re two of a kind. I like you—and I’ll never trust you. You understand that. Just as you wouldn’t trust me, in reversed circumstances.”

Trelig did understand. “I’m much too new to be a threat, Soncoro. Let’s say a partnership until then.”

The old man considered that. “Quite so. You understand what you have that we want, don’t you? And why we are delighted and relieved that you are who you are?”

“Because I can pilot a spaceship,” the former syndicate boss replied easily. “And because I’m able to open up everything on New Pompeii.” Trelig felt vastly relieved. He had been afraid that he would wind up in a water hex, or, if not that, in a hex whose government had neither designs on New Pompeii nor people like Soncoro. But then, he reflected, if we have a common beginning, the odds were always in my favor.

Trelig looked at the old man. “You’re going after the one in the North?”

Soncoro shook his head. “No, that would involve almost insuperable obstacles. We looked at it, of course. You went down a good ways in, in a nontech hex, so we would not only have to get to it, and no Southerner has ever been into the North, we would somehow have to move it close to two hundred kilometers to make it flyable, then set it straight up so it would be well away before the Well could snare it. And—this is equally important—to do it one would have to pass through a number of hexes with life so alien one couldn’t understand it, control it, or trust it; and in some atmospheres that are lethal. No, I’m afraid we leave your ship to the Uchjin.”

“But the other ship isn’t in one piece!” Trelig objected. “It was my own ship. It would break up on the way in. The nine modules would be spread over half the Well World!”

“They are,” Soncoro admitted. “But, tell me, would you need all the modules to make it fly again? Suppose you had a fabricating plant capable of building an airtight central body? And a couple of good electrical engineers to help do it right? What would you need then?”

Trelig was genuinely amazed. “With all that—probably the power plant and one or two modules to make certain you fabricated the new parts correctly. And the bridge, of course.”

“Suppose you had the power plant and modules, but not the bridge?” Soncoro prompted. “Could it be done?”

Trelig thought about it. “Not impossible, but a hell of a lot more difficult. The computer guidance is there.”

The old man nodded again. “But we have access to pretty good computers here. If I understand it, it’s not the machine itself, it’s just its abilities, programs, memory, and action time.”

“And interface with the power plant,” Trelig added.

“Not insolvable,” Soncoro pronounced. He smiled wickedly. “Welcome to the family.”

“But where are you going to get all this?” Trelig protested. “I would guess that if you could have a machine shop and computers here, you’d have them.”

“Good point,” Soncoro agreed. “But we won’t be alone. What would you say if I told you that four the modules were within six hexes of this one, and the power plant was seven hexes away? And that we had allies—a semitech hex and a high-tech hex, with complementing abilities?”

Trelig was intrigued. “But you’re talking about a war!” he objected. “I thought war was impossible here!”

“For conquest, yes,” the old man admitted. “But not for limited objectives. Dhala proved that you couldn’t hold ground for any length of time here. But we need only take it, take it long enough to get what we want, and move on. Some of the hexes are simple anyway. They will yield to us or just ignore us. Only a couple of them will be problems.”

Trelig considered this, getting excited now. This development was beyond his wildest dreams! “But the ship should have come in at a definite angle. If five are attainable, then all of them should be. Why limit it?”

“We’re not the only ones in the game,” the old Makiem told him. “Others are moving now. Perhaps we can deal later, but the power plant is the one thing completely beyond our ability to construct. We have lots of spacefarers, but they are technicians. You know how to pilot—but do you know how to build a ship?”

“No,” he admitted.

“We haven’t had a Type 41 pilot, though, in a very long time. None we can get our hands on. I assume that progress has made much of their skill obsolete anyway. Correct?”

“Probably,” Trelig told him. “The power plants and therefore the knowledge of what to tell the computers to do, have changed radically just in my time.

“Then it’s safe to say that only you, this associate, Yulin, and the woman, Mavra Chang, could possibly pilot the ship properly?”

Trelig nodded honestly, although he was aware of how much that increased his value. “If there are no human pilots here from as recent as a century, I’d say, almost definitely.”

Soncoro seemed tremendously pleased. He leaned forward again. “This fellow Yulin. Is he trustworthy?”

Trelig grinned. “As trustworthy as I am.”

Soncoro hissed. “As bad as that. That means there’s little chance of a deal there, then, unless we get the power plant.”

“You know where he is?” Trelig asked, amazed.

“He is a Dasheen, and a male, damn it all! That will give him power there. The Yaxa are already well along with their own plans, perhaps a bit ahead of us, and he will naturally ally with them if he can. So, we go and as quickly as possible. Whoever owns the power plant owns it all.”

“Tell me two things,” Trelig said persistently.

“Go ahead,” the old man agreed.

“First, what would have happened if I hadn’t materialized here as a Makiem? You’re talking as if you were going to war anyway, it was all set up. Did you know?”

“Of course not!” responded the secret ruler of Makiem. “The way things worked out only simplifies matters. We would have seized the modules anyway and waited for one of you to come to us. You would have had to.” His logic was unassailable. “Now, what’s the other thing?”

“How do you have sex in this place?” he asked.

Soncoro roared with laughter.